


And So They Dance

by volti



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F, Gymnastics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/pseuds/volti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Annie decides that Mikasa Ackerman irritates her for all they have in common, and for all they don't." An AU where Annie and Mikasa are competitive gymnasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So They Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Foxberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxberry/gifts).



> This was a pretty lengthy piece for Foxberry, who requested an AU where Mikasa and Annie are competitive gymnasts. I hope you all like it! Kudos and comments are always welcome c:

For the first time in years, and in spite of her father's voice at the back of her head, Annie Leonhardt watches the competition in between events.

Not that there's anything special about it, or the gym, for that matter. It's got the same springboard floors, the runway that seems at once too long and too short, a horse she couldn't have imagined hurdling over when she was four and pudgy and smelling her toes in butterfly stretches. And there are the balance beams and uneven bars, sturdy and riddled with chalk, old friends to her by now. She can probably swivel and pound and flyaway with her eyes closed, drown out the judges and commentators all the while, even as her coach paces by the folding chairs, reciting hackneyed mantras more for himself than for her.

She watches, with stray hairs from her bun tickling the nape of her neck and her legs swishing back and forth in her track pants, because no one is here to tell her not to. No one is here to remind her, almost like a threat, to watch herself instead of others, that her moves matter the most, that appreciating others won't get her to the top. She watches, with folded arms and a narrowed gaze, out of a low-grade contempt, opportunity, and a curiosity she'll barely admit she holds.

Her eyes drift around the gym, toward the judges with their clipboard and crisp black suits, the glitter of other leotards and hair ties, her beam and vault scores flashing on the screen overhead. There's the rumble of applause for Mina Carolina at the end of the runway, toes pointed and arms raised in a salute, the thunder of her steps and the pound of her feet against the springboard when she forces herself up and over the horse, roundoff-back-handspring-Arabian. There's the slightest stumble in her landing--Annie catches it, knows the judges will too, and that her father might have--but the rest of the audience doesn't, they cheer themselves hoarse because they could never even do a roundoff-back-handspring-Arabian on the floor if they tried.

She doesn't know the girls on the bars or the beam; she doesn't really care to.

Her eyes drift to the floor because that's where the remaining silence takes her, and because that's where she'll be called next. There's a girl standing close to the center, legs together, arms at her sides. Stately, patient, black hair tied back. Like she's never done this before. Annie can't tell if she's curious or contemptuous; her expression wouldn't betray a thing to anyone, anyway.

The girl's name booms over the loudspeakers-- _Mikasa Ackerman_ \--and she salutes. And the music starts, and Annie watches everything fall ridiculously into place.

From the very beginning, there is a rhythm in Mikasa Ackerman that speaks of precision without rigidity. There's something there that engages the audience into following her, cheering for her beyond the difficult tumbles. Like a conversation where people listen, really listen, instead of spending all their time trying to figure out how to answer. And Annie listens, too. Annie watches, with her fists clenched in her lap, the point of Mikasa Ackerman's toes during every pose and every spin, and how she embodies the light pop of the music and pure aggression in turns. It almost makes her forget herself.

And when she finishes, with outstretched arms and her head toward the sky, Annie has to force herself to snap out of it amid the cheers, ignore the way she trips over herself when she shucks off her track pants and climbs the stairs. Mikasa Ackerman is only competition, she tells herself, meant to be dismissed. Mikasa Ackerman should mean nothing to her when she raises her arms and blocks out everything except the flourish of a pre-recorded orchestra and the springs that give her flight. Because she is the storm to be reckoned with, she is the half-point between winning and losing. She is rawness, competition, force. Victory, in spite of the bright yellow flag that rises from the corner after her final pass.

Out of bounds. For a moment, she can already see the flicker of disappointment in her father's eyes, no matter how theoretical; she chooses to push it aside when she drops to her knees in a pose that bespeaks conviction. She won't allow herself to dwell on foolish mistakes in the midst of applause she knows is at least half-forced.

The only thing she does notice, in fact, is that over the course of the competition, the screens never display Mikasa Ackerman's scores. An exhibition, Annie realizes, to show the world what she has.

To Annie, she has enough to show. It's enough to push her, even as she watches the rest of the events, even as she perfects her routine on the uneven bars--for _herself_ , she insists silently--and the judges present her with a gold medal and more formalities. And when Mikasa Ackerman stops by to congratulate her, cookie-cutter family in the background and everything, her eyes are narrowed and her grip is hard, even with her proof around her neck. But Mikasa's grip is just as tight, her face just as blank, and her words are as light as her music and as steely as the glint in her eyes.

Annie decides that Mikasa Ackerman irritates her for all they have in common, and for all they don't.

\---

She's an all-around, Annie comes to realize at future competitions, when Mikasa's scores blaze on the screens and she retreats to her folding chair with a water bottle in her grip and chalk smeared across her thighs. Perfect at everything, or almost--that's probably what the commentators are reporting to the audience, along with the stupidly curious fact that the two of them barely exchange words outside of congratulations through clenched teeth, though they teeter between first and second place. Annie never knows what Mikasa tells the camera workers about it; she deflects the questions for her own part, tells them all the same thing.

" _I'm here because I know I'm good enough to be here. I'm here to compete._ "

Quiet, practiced, as though someone has scripted the words for her and made her recite them on every occasion. Because she could at least stand to give her father some credit after all these years, even with all the lectures, even after all the calluses and the _silver isn't gold_ s.

"Why do you do that?" Mikasa asks her after a month or two, when they're seated beside each other and their coaches are making small talk and exchanging experiences that Annie couldn't care less about.

Annie barely tosses her a glance; God knows what kind of coverage they'll get if it actually looks like they're talking. "Why do I always do _what?_ "

"Your routines. And the way you talk." Mikasa shrugs a shoulder, dusts some chalk off her leotard--dark red, with barely a hint of glitter. It matches her lipstick, Annie notices; it sort of suits her. "They're always so violent. Like you're trying to prove something instead of just feeling it. There's nothing wrong with being personable, you know."

"What does that matter to you? Why do you always do yours like you're some Top 40 fairy?"

"It was just a question, God." Mikasa glares, eyes dark, and for a moment Annie wishes her performances would bring out that look. "I just thought. Your coach seems gentle and all. Encouraging. Like he'd be another dad to you."

"Christ, you really are all about the feel-goods, aren't you?" Annie crosses her arms over her chest and leans back, gives Mina a nod when she passes them by. "Look. I know you're new to this and all, but it's not about that. It's never _been_ about that. Not everything fits in some nice warm box, like it's all about dreams coming true and going for the gold, or whatever other cliches you've got up your pants." For a moment, Annie remembers that cookie-cutter family of hers, mother, father, brother. People for her to go home to, tousle her hair and take her out for dinner no matter what Goddamn score she gets. It makes Annie sick.

Mikasa sighs through clenched teeth and gazes out at the floor, clapping politely for the girl who's just finished a pass to some run-of-the-mill instrumental. "Never mind. I get it. Go, you're next on beam."

Thank God. Annie doesn't know if she could survive another second.

They barely speak after that. The reporters keep asking questions about how straightforward they both are, as if that's supposed to mean something between them, and they keep quiet. They swap congratulations under their breath over the months, speak with too-tight handshakes, stiff hugs, tense brushes of the shoulders and fingers. They keep switching off between firsts and seconds, and Annie somehow finds herself always glaring at Mikasa when she cradles silver medals and loops them around her brother's neck.

"At least I placed," she hears Mikasa tell her mother once, as they're leaving the gymnasium, and Annie nearly screams and throws hers in the dumpster outside. Better than taking it home and remembering that silver is never gold, anyway.

\---

It's the month before her birthday, after a regional competition, that Annie finally cracks in the girls' bathroom with her fingers coiled around another gold.

She's bent over the sink, eyeshadow smudged and mascara running down her cheeks, hands shaking over the cold bathroom tile. She thinks if she edges toward the toilet she can vomit everything, the hatred, the panic, the feeling of being utterly alone with some of her successes and all of her shortcomings. Because sometimes even gold is never gold, even when it stares her in the face, reminding her, taunting her.

And then she hears a muffled voice outside, and before she can get to the paper towels, Mikasa is standing there, in the doorway. Staring. Silent.

"What do you want?" Annie snaps.

Mikasa doesn't speak, only closes the door behind her and watches. Like she's some kind of display. A joke. God, it makes her want to scream.

"You must think it's real _fucking_ hilarious, don't you?" Her voice is heavy, shaking under her breath, but she's past being able to control it. "Look at Annie Leonhardt, always quiet and angry. Always competing. With _you._ " She's past being able to control anything. "Look how fucking pathetic she is, crying in the bathroom over a gold medal while everybody's going home. I bet you love it, don't you, because _at least you placed_ and you've got a whole damn family cheering you on out there. God, your parents must be so proud of you." She spits each word like poison, patronizing, glaring through the tears and the makeup while Mikasa cradles her medal to her chest, just like always. Because they're all so fucking precious to her, because they're all enough.

And Mikasa just stares, and Annie's close to screaming again. "Why won't you _say anything?_ "

Mikasa bites her lip and lets the medal hang limply from her neck. "Those aren't my parents," she finally says, quiet enough so only they can hear.

Annie freezes. "What the hell do you mean, they're not your parents?"

Mikasa leans against the door, fumbles with the zipper of her track suit, tugs at her scrunchie until her dark hair spills onto her shoulders. "That's my foster family. My real parents died when I was nine."

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Annie feels her heart sink. "Am I supposed to apologize to you or something?"

"No. I just. Thought you should know. Those aren't my real parents. They just tag along." Mikasa pauses, her gaze falling to the floor as she crosses her legs at the ankles. "Sometimes I think they just come because they feel like they have to. Like I'm dragging them everywhere with me because it's the only thing I can be bothered to do."

Annie scoffs and finally tears off a few squares of paper towel, like maybe if she rubs her skin raw she can forget any of this ever happened. "Yeah, well. At least they show up."

"Oh..." The word echoes off tile and chrome alike, like Mikasa suddenly understands everything, even if she probably doesn't. Annie turns on her heel, scratches at her face with the paper towel and flicks the tap until she feels a hand on her shoulder.

Mikasa's still standing behind her, a couple of makeup remover pads between her fingers. Annie plucks them silently, sniffling all throughout, even when she's reapplying it down to the glitter and the gloss, because gymnasts never cry. And when she tosses them in the trash, Mikasa stares at her again, doesn't say a word, and pulls her into a hug. A real one, none of that camaraderie bullshit that they have to show for the cameras. Her arms are actually welcoming, and their medals clang when they bump against one another, and her hair tickles a bit, but it's... warm. It takes Annie a while to actually wrap her arms around Mikasa's waist in return.

"Congratulations," Mikasa murmurs with a ginger pat to her back, like this is only for them. "I'm glad you got the gold. You really deserved it."

Annie snorts and blows some hair out of her face--it smells strangely like apples--before she pulls back. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"No I'm not. Well, not entirely." Mikasa's gaze drifts to the floor again, and when Annie follows suit, she notices that Mikasa's still holding her hands, stroking the backs of them with her thumbs like she's trying to remind her that she's actually worth something.

"You deserved it," Mikasa whispers again, before she backs out of the bathroom, and this time, Annie actually sort of believes her.

\---

"This one?" Her coach turns the CD over in his hand, blank except for a label she made out of a strip of masking tape and strokes of permanent marker. "For nationals? Really?"

Annie isn't sure if she should be dragging her fingers over the velvet of her leotard for comfort or crossing her arms like her potential is threatened. She settles for the latter, muscles taut against the dig of her nails, planting her heels against the flat carpet and staring at him dead-on. "Is there a problem?"

Her coach shakes his head. "It's just a very... different style of music for you. You never seemed like the type to want to perform a routine to a pop song. All of the ones you pick are so..."

"Violent?"

He chuckles. "That's one way of putting it, I guess. You probably got it from your dad, huh? He was always like that, you know. Before he retired and all."

Annie's gaze hardens, lips pressing together in a firm line. She won't let it betray the way her heart clenches out of sight. "Don't talk about him."

He apologizes with a hand to his chest, eyes falling shut. "And you're sure this is the one you want?"

She thinks about the rigid floor under her feet, the leotards stuffed in her closet at home, the way Mikasa pressed a scrap of paper into her palm before she left. The black scrawl of her phone number, taps against touch screens for two hours, the moments where she couldn't tell what felt longer, the conversations or the spaces of time between her messages and Mikasa's.

_does he ever show up to your meets?_

_not anymore. used to. when he coached me. probably because he had to._

_your dad was your coach?_

_unfortunately._

_then you'd think he'd be even more proud of you._

_more like even more of a hard-ass._

_that's your dad you're talking about._

_not all of us had the best dad in the world, you know._

_sorry._

_yeah. me too._

And when Mikasa called her for the first time a month later, on her birthday, to make sure that, for at least five minutes, she knew she mattered. That the awards mattered. That everything she put into everything mattered. And the phone calls after class in the months after, where they talked in hushed tones on buses and park benches, about gymnastics and geometry, where Mikasa told her about her foster brother, her best friend, the boys that stared like they couldn't tell if they wanted to fight her or date her. Where she told Mikasa that maybe she wasn't really doing this for herself, that she was making herself believe the wrong things for the wrong people. Or in the middle of the night, when homework or insomnia or the occasional tear kept them up and they needed something distant, someone distant, to squash it.

And then Annie thinks of the gold medal, the one Mikasa precariously brushed her fingers against on the way out of the bathroom, and its place on her desk at home, how every so often she casts a glance in its direction and remembers the warm strength of Mikasa's arms around her middle. And she takes the CD back, knuckles paling from how tightly she's gripping the jewel case, and she says, "I'm sure."

Her coach grins. "Then we'll figure something out."

\---

She practices, amid classes and text messages. With balled fists and callused heels, she waits for tones and the hands that encourage her through new passes on the floor and transfers on the uneven bars. Sometimes she sacrifices her usual bun for a free-flowing ponytail, because there's something strangely liberating about the hair that tickles the nape of her neck with every roundoff, every jump. She hangs at the sidelines, watching other floor exercises, studies the flourish and the dance of the girls around her and mimics them in subtle ways. Just the right curl of the fingers, just enough investment in her own music. Technique in tandem with style, not instead of it.

It all makes her feel like she's flying. Like there's more to her than steel and muscle and bone. Her coach's smile and applause is the last nail in the coffin.

She skirts past her father at home, never bothering to tell him about her routines or her medals. If he really wanted to know, he'd come. If he wanted to know, he'd stay longer than the five minutes of dropping her off or picking her up. He'd care. Maybe the way Mikasa cares, with text messages and phone calls and _Stop worrying so much, I don't have to be there to know you're doing fine._ With the reassurance that silver isn't so bad, that she doesn't need to hate the people around her just to get by.

"I never hated you, you know," Mikasa murmurs over the phone one night, when Annie's tucked into a ball in bed, flexing her fingers and mentally kicking herself for half-wishing she were here. To talk to, she insists to the silence of her bedroom. And then Mikasa's talking again, and her toes curl in attention. "I was kind of put off by the fact that you did. Or do, I don't know--"

"I don't hate you," Annie croaks in the dark. Neither of them has to speak to know that there's an _anymore_ there, cutting in the same way her teeth sink hard into her bottom lip.

Mikasa's laugh crackles through the receiver then, soft, spilling over like her dark hair onto her shoulders, the way Annie sometimes imagines. Hates that she likes to imagine. "I don't hate you, either."

Hearing that, and hearing her own music, with the choreography running through her head and the almost automatic point of her toes in her sneakers, gets her through more than her father's looks ever have.

And when Mikasa sits down next to her and greets her with the subtlest smile at nationals, her toes curl again to stave off the way her stomach turns. Because Mikasa Ackerman is sort of beautiful when Annie isn't hating her. Beautiful in the way she shrugs off her track suit, in the way she crosses her ankles and absently traces her fingers over the lines of muscle in her arms, in the way the light of her eyes is more than enough applause for the gymnasts already warming up. The little things.

"You're wearing your hair different," Mikasa comments under her breath, fingers inching closer until they're just brushing Annie's.

"I'm doing a lots of things differently today," Annie mumbles back as her hand tenses. "What are you doing?"

"Not hating you," Mikasa whispers as their fingers lock together in the half-second before the reporters spill in their direction. "Good luck," she adds, and behind it Annie can feel all the echoes from the bathroom, the arms around her waist, and the gold medal she still keeps on her desk.

For herself, Annie thinks after the ceremony begins, once they've got a couple of events behind them and her name is finally called for the floor exercise. Not for fathers under the guise of best interests. Not for coaches with repetitive phrases. Not for the girls who seep in and shape her routine, just barely out of her control. Not even for Mikasa, who's already cartwheeled her way into the judges' hearts with some number that sounded like it bounced right out of the twenties.

For herself, she exhales. A repetition that works somehow.

They call her name again, over the loudspeaker, so that it breaks through all the formalities. She tosses a glance behind her. And she salutes.

Annie can only imagine what kind of commentary the reporters are making, how this "just has to be a step outside her comfort zone," how it's "so ambitious to do something like this for the national stage." But that's all the mind she can pay it when her priority is pointing toes and sticking landings, shaving off the aggression of past competitions in favor of a popular sort of elegance. She guides herself through tumbles and twirls, remembers to let the music crawl under her skin and take her where she needs to go. Remind her what flying feels like, what else she's made of. She's so invested in herself--finally, in a different version of herself--that her heartbeat and the heat of her skin nearly drowns out the applause that follows her final pose.

When she returns to her seat with what she thinks is the worst behind her, hands flexing and relaxing in turns, Mikasa tosses her a hint of a smile while she slaps chalk off her thighs and works at the grips on her hands. "That was... something," she says after a moment.

Annie slumps into the folding chair beside her, tugging her track pants on until she's called for her final event. "A good something, or a bad something?"

Mikasa shrugs. "A something something. It was..."

"Different? Ambitious?" Annie rolls her eyes, the syrupy tones of the reporters bleeding into her own voice.

Mikasa snorts and gives the grips one last pull, the rip of Velcro grating against their ears as she takes them off and drops them beside her. "Now you're just screwing with the commentators." The snort gives way to a soft laugh that Annie feels in the pit of her stomach, even as she pulls her legs up onto the folding chair. "It just seemed... good for you. You looked like you were actually enjoying yourself. Like you weren't so hung up on proving yourself to anybody except... well.. you."

"That was the plan," Annie manages to say, tossing her a nearby water bottle and taking one for herself.

"I can tell."

In the silence that follows, the seconds last a little too long, and the light in Mikasa's eyes glimmers a little too much. Annie shifts in her chair, looking down at the chalk that dusts the carpet, and clears her throat, because maybe that will make her feel less like she wants to disappear into the ground. "You're on beam next, right?"

Mikasa hums in between sips of water, casting glances at the scoreboard out of the corner of her eye. Fifteen and change for each of them. She nods--whether she's answering the question or congratulating either of them, Annie isn't quite sure.

"Go ahead, then. You'll be..." She inhales, mentally cursing herself for how jagged her breath sounds. "You'll be great, Mikasa."

Her answer is a smile that seeps into her skin like the music did, before Mikasa turns on her heels and walks toward the beam. Annie isn't sure if the casual brush of her fingertips against her elbow is intentional or not, whether it's some dig at whatever they were before or something to keep them both steady in the face of pressure. For a flicker of a moment, she hopes it's the latter, and somewhere in that moment she finds the ridiculous need for affection in it.

From the other side of the gym, and in spite of no one, she watches Mikasa raise her arms and mount the beam with a springboard and a handstand. Eyes piercing and breath bated, she sits rigid at the edge of her chair as Mikasa pulls her in again, the way she always did. Aerials, back handsprings, back tucks, and this time, Annie lets herself fall into watching. Like for a moment it doesn't matter which of them wins, because they've learned how to captivate each other with the slightest bend of their knees or their lips so close to the phone. Suspended, or suspending. She wonders if Mikasa felt like this during her own performance.

And then it happens. It happens so quickly Annie barely catches it, jolting to attention at the command of her own body. It was supposed to be one of those new required maneuvers, a side aerial with bent knees--that was what Mikasa told her over the phone one night. Maybe her leg gave out, or maybe her foot slipped, but all Annie sees is Mikasa topple from the beam, and everything after is an echo. The gasps from the audience, the thud of her body against the blue mats underneath, and--perhaps for another handful of too-long seconds--the false security that Mikasa Ackerman will get up again. Mount, perform, dismount. Because that's what all her gold medals say, and the hard muscles that make her up, and the tight, tight clench of Annie's fists as she tries in vain to tear her eyes away. To pretend it didn't happen.

And Mikasa doesn't get up.

And Annie's heart sinks.

\---

There is a light gone from the gymnasium when Mikasa's brother slips down to piggyback her away, when an apology tumbles from her lips as she passes Annie by. A sick irony, really, but Annie catches her hand at the last moment and speaks a subtle encouragement with her eyes.

There is a light gone and Annie almost returns to herself in bits and pieces, lets images of gold glitter behind her eyelids until she is called to the vault runway. She fills her own holes, ignores her hair against the nape of her neck, and remembers style in Mikasa's absence. She sticks a landing for two, she forgets to smile when she salutes, she closes her eyes when she cuts through the cheers and returns to her seat, and she dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.

This time, the judges smile, really smile when they loop the medal around her neck. This time, gold is gold.

Mikasa's already texted her directions to the nearby hospital-- _in case you want to see me after,_ she says--and once Annie wades through the broadcasters and answers whatever questions she can, she goes there. Still in her tracksuit and leotard, still with the medal around her neck, still with strands of her hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks.

When she finds Mikasa's room, she freezes at the doorway, not sure what holds her gaze more--the cast wrapped around Mikasa's ankle, or the loving looks on her foster parents' faces as they speak to her. But Mikasa catches her eye and manages a small smile, and Annie could swear that a hint of pink dusts her cheeks when she asks for a moment alone.

Her stomach is turning when she steps into the room, fists still curling and uncurling when she takes a seat at Mikasa's bedside and tosses a couple of backwards glances.

"They'll leave us alone," Mikasa murmurs, settling back against the pillows before she coughs uncomfortably. "I'm. Um. Glad you showed up."

Annie gives her a noncommittal shrug and sits on her hands to keep them still. "It's broken? So you won't be able to--"

"I know." She looks down at her ankle and wrings her hands. "I'll be okay." And then a laugh. "So your dad didn't come with you after all, huh?"

"Told him to stay home," Annie mumbles around the butterflies in her stomach and the lump in her throat. "I told him I wanted total support or none at all. I told him..." She scoffs and looks down at the medal in her hands. "I told him I was doing it for me and I'd find people who understood that."

"I understand that."

"I know."

Annie leans forward, anchoring her hands on the bedframe, and her eyes drop down to the way Mikasa's fingers skim the edges of the medal. "So you got the gold after all." Mikasa laughs under her breath, and Annie's stomach flutters again. "The big one. Congrats."

She looks down, down where her fingers entwine with the lanyard and nearly touch Mikasa's. "Take it," she says, tugging the medal over her head and letting it ripple into Mikasa's open palm. "I want you to have it."

Mikasa's eyes widen. "I couldn't--"

"You deserve it as much as I do. Take it." Annie swallows. "I have others."

Mikasa hesitates, turning the medal over and over in her hand--God, she still has some chalk on her fingertips. "Okay," she finally says. "I'll take it. On one condition."

"Name it."

"I'm coming to your next meet."

Annie's brows furrow. "Why would you want to do that? To try and make up for my dad?" She scoffs again. "Kind of a big hole to fill. Or maybe not, depending on how you look at it."

Mikasa's shaking her head, coaxing the medal back into Annie's hands and guiding them around her neck. Not as ceremonious as it could be, a crowning in a hospital bed, but it'll have to do for now. "Maybe a little. I won't lie about that. And maybe because I'd be wishing I could compete, too. But mostly because I want to be there. For you." She's still holding Annie's hands, callused palms and fingers against her own, and Annie can feel herself leaning forward, to just meet with her, just barely.

"Because I'm proud of you," Mikasa whispers, eyes darting in every direction before they fix on hers, and then they're kissing. Softly, carefully, with thumbs against jawlines and soft breaths in between. And it's sort of everything and nothing Annie expects, because it isn't until that moment that Annie realizes she wanted to do it at all. Mikasa pulls her in the same way, like always, tugs Annie's hair out of her ponytail until it spills onto her shoulder and chases after her lips when they pull apart.

"What about your leg?" Annie blurts out after a moment, in the little gap between them, and Mikasa bows her head and laughs.

"I just kissed you, and that's what you're worried about?"

"I just want to know--"

"I'll live." Mikasa's still stroking Annie's hand, like it's easy to pretend that the world is just them right now. "I will. I just want to see you more."

Annie lets herself fall in that moment, leans in until their noses bump. "Yeah?"

Mikasa holds her there with another kiss, a smile that's only theirs like the medal hanging from her neck. "Yeah."


End file.
